The Weight of Us Both
by balladofbliss
Summary: "On Tuesday, he wakes up to find the right side of the bed empty." Sam/Andy, S5-ish. One-shot.


The Weight of Us Both

A/N: It's been quite a while. Real life has been very busy, and I haven't been terribly inspired as of late – woefully behind on reading as well as writing. This began as one sentence that popped into my head as I was falling asleep, and I'm glad I wrote it down, as it morphed into this. It's not meant to be anything particularly earth-shattering, just a moment set… sometime in S5, I suppose. It feels really good to be back in the saddle, so to speak; I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: I don't own Rookie Blue. The title of this story comes from "How to Be Dead" by Snow Patrol, which I'm certain is one of the loveliest songs about a fight ever written; I'm also certain it's not mine.

* * *

On Tuesday, he wakes up to find the right side of the bed empty.

This isn't particularly concerning in and of itself – she likes to play basketball in the morning when the weather turns warm, and after some of the words they exchanged far too few hours beforehand, he'd expect she's particularly in need of blowing off some steam – but as his eyes adjust to sunlight and his mind to consciousness in general, he notices it. Rather, the _absence _of it: that damn rolling alarm clock she bought last week. She claimed it was because she'd been having trouble waking up, but more often than not she just groans and pulls a pillow over her head, leaving him to jab wearily under the bed with a Swiffer in an attempt to shove the thing out of its obnoxiously inaccessible resting place.

(Hindsight being what it is, it occurs to him now that difficulty waking up might very well have been related to difficulty sleeping; if he were half as observant as his job description expects him to be, he'd have thought to ask why.)

Still, he gets up and looks under the bed, a tiny part of him expecting (hoping?) to find the stupid thing in its usual spot, batteries dead – but vacant space greets him. He doesn't need to look in the closet or the bureau to confirm his suspicions, but he does anyway.

He taps one barely controlled fist on the door frame, his head coming down to rest upon it. _Whoever said 'things are always better in the morning' can go fuck themselves._

Eventually, he pads into the kitchen; at least she left the French press, even though it's technically hers. He pours the water in too hot, pushes the plunger down too soon, and pours in a diabetic coma's worth of sugar to mask the hot beverage's dilute, acrid excuse for flavor. Last night was bad, he reasons, though not all that different than it's been as of late; it wasn't like_ he_ was particularly thrilled about getting home after eleven for the fifth consecutive night – one of which was supposed to have been his day off, until a huge case came in – but something about it had clearly set her off more than usual. And so it began, the way it always begins these days.

"_What's the point in even doing this if we see each other for ten minutes a day? And so help me, Sam, if you say we see each other at work all the time…"_

"_I wasn't going to."_

"_Yeah, you weren't going to say anything, were you? Just stand there and shrug, like there's nothing you can do about it?"_

"_Where is this coming from, Andy? You act all nonchalant for _days_ when I'm working the same hours I did tonight, and then you just explode at me out of nowhere."_

"_It's not coming from anywhere, okay? And quit trying to turn this around on me."_

(Things went downhill from there.)

Highway hypnosis gets him to work without much thought, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from tensing as he walks into the parade room. After a second, though, anxiety turns to surprise and disappointment as he scans the staff present and realizes she isn't among them.

He approaches Frank after the briefing is complete. "Hey, you seen McNally today?"

Frank glances down at his staff assignment sheet. "Looks like she swapped with Jones. They wrote it in after the roster printed, must've been last-minute." He grins at Sam. "Why, trouble in paradise?"

Sam manages to mutter something that could reasonably be perceived as a witty affirmation and makes his way to the D's office, where he attempts to interact with other people as little as possible.

So that's Tuesday.

* * *

On Wednesday, she's back at work, hair soaked and slicked back in parade. (The water pressure in her condo was always pretty crappy, and she's not about to pay a plumber to fix it now that she's waiting for the new owners to close – so it makes sense that she'd just shower here.) She keeps her eyes forward the entire time; he stands in his usual spot against the rear wall, watching shiny beads of moisture gather at the ends of her ponytail and drop off into dark trails down the back of her vest.

(At one point, he wonders what inconvenient location that dumbass alarm clock has to roll; the only thing that's really left in the condo is her couch, since his is in far better shape. They were going to look for something else, a place altogether new to them both, but that was a month ago.

A lot has changed since they originally came up with that plan; Sam isn't sure he's ready to know precisely how much.)

He doesn't try to stop her on her way out; not with that jut in her chin. Nothing good will come of that, he knows. Still, he murmurs, "Have a good shift, McNally," as she walks past, and she slows her step for a moment, nodding with a barely audible "You too" as she continues on.

She seems a little more relaxed after shift – he spots her laughing at something Price is saying as they walk in, this morning's tension gone from her stance – so he takes up his old spot outside the women's locker room, pretending to glance at his phone until she emerges.

He cocks his head. "Hey."

"Hi." She blinks a couple of times and suddenly appears to find great interest in something on the wall behind him.

"How was your day?" _Might as well start with a softball._

She bites her lip. "Fine. You?"

_Oh, for fuck's sake with the _fine_ again. Nothing is fine, Andy, and we both goddamn know it_. He takes a couple of deep breaths, allowing his knee-jerk response to remain in his head, and gently takes her by the shoulders, guiding her back toward the wall. "Look, I know this wasn't how either of us wanted to spend our week, okay?"

She still won't look at him. "Sorry if I messed up your plans."

"Andy…" Would it kill her to make it easy on him for once? He forces himself to verbalize something she's long needed to hear, something he himself once disastrously disregarded. "If this is gonna work, you can't just take off."

Her face softens and he could swear he starts to feel her shake beneath his hands, but just as quickly she squares her jaw and steps back, meeting his eyes at last. "Can't I? I mean… it's the way I was taught." The first time he heard those words, a mind-boggling number of years ago, they were imbued with amity and respect; now they reverberate steeped in bitterness, propelled by her uncharacteristically stone-cold gaze.

God, he hates seeing her like this.

"All right," he exhales. "I may have contributed to whatever's going on here, but there are two of us in this, McNally, and I can't fix everything by myself. And it's not fair of you to expect me to. So if you want to help me do that, you know where to find me. Have a good night."

He makes it about three steps before she calls his name.

"I'm sorry, I just…" She shrugs. "It's easier to just be mad than actually think about it, you know? Because I don't like what I'm thinking."

Sam imagines he's not going to, either. "Which is?"

She looks away again. "That we're just going to keep having the same stupid fight about the same things. That… that maybe love isn't enough."

"It's enough if you want it to be enough," Sam answers without hesitation.

"Yeah, but wanting to fix a problem isn't the same as actually being able to do it."

_Touché._ Sam runs a restless hand through his hair "Okay. So we do it. Operation: Make Love, Not War. Catchy, right?"

She purses her lips like she's trying not to smile. "Has a nice ring to it, I guess."

"Good," he says softly. "Dinner tomorrow night?"

She hesitates for a moment before responding. "Six. Not a minute later."

"You got it." He turns to head back to the office.

"Sam?"

"Hmm?" He looks back at her over his shoulder.

She looks puzzled. "Where? Dinner, I mean. Where are we going?"

"Home," he says simply before continuing on his way.

* * *

On Thursday, he beats her to the house by exactly four minutes with takeout from her favorite Thai place and a bottle of red. (His original idea, to take off the afternoon and cook something involving more than one course, was shot to hell before he even took off his jacket this morning – but he can live with Plan B in this case.) She lets herself in as he's searching for the corkscrew.

"Smells good," she says, lifting a carton from the paper bag. "Is this cashew stir-fry?"

"With extra pineapple." Having located the elusive device, his voice strains ever so slightly as he carefully twists the metal into the cork, shimmying it back and forth until the bottle opens with a deeply satisfying pop.

"That's probably the only sound I wanted to hear after today," Andy sighs.

He turns toward her, a question on his lips, but she's already busying herself with plates and stemware. They eat in surprisingly comfortable silence; Andy in particular packs it away like she's about to go into hibernation. (As Sam recalls, she's never been exceptionally good at feeding herself, squatting in her soon-to-be-former condo or not.)

Sam takes one last bite of drunken noodles and fixes his eyes on her. "So what happened today?"

She looks up from her plate, startled. "Um, nothing. Nothing I couldn't handle."

"What happened that you handled?"

She makes a face. "It was stupid. Not even worth mentioning."

"Andy…"

"All right, all right. You heard about the robbery in the apartment complex on Jane?"

He nods. Three perps working together – young and inexperienced, but armed.

"Chloe and I were first on the scene. Chased the guys up to the roof, but one of them somehow got past us and started running back downstairs, so she went after him."

_Breathe in, breathe out_. "So it was you and two guys with guns. On a roof."

She shrugs. "It wasn't exactly a career highlight for either of us, okay? And she's been having a rough time getting back into things, I'm willing to cut her some slack."

"Not when she puts your life in danger," Sam retorts.

"I talked them down," Andy protests. "It was no big thing, they were actually just desperate to help their parents out, and someone they knew at school had access to –"

"It could've been a _very_ big thing. And you know it." He's seeing red all of a sudden; knows he shouldn't, knows it's ultimately going to be detrimental to both of them, but he can't stop it once it starts. "What's rule number one? 'Have your partner's back.' Come on, Andy."

"I already have the speech committed to memory," she snaps. "Look, I was in a situation, and however I got there, I got myself out. Because that's what I'm capable of doing."

"I never said you weren't capable. Doesn't mean you're invincible."

She shoves herself back from the table and crosses her arms. "You know, you say you want me to talk to you, but when it turns into a lecture, it's not exactly an incentive to continue." She looks away and adds, under her breath but still perceptible, "If you're ever even here to lecture me."

_Breathe in, breathe out_. (If they make it through this, Sam figures he ought to give serious thought to a second career as a yoga instructor. Minus the yoga. Really, just telling people when to breathe and collecting their money.) "Rothenberg," he finally says.

"Who?" Andy's clearly not impressed.

"Marshall Rothenberg, the identity theft guy. We tracked him for a couple months."

"Right," she nods. "Traci said you got him last week, though. Or the week before last, I can't remember."

"Week before last," Sam echoes. "Thing is… I was in interrogation with him. And he – well, he basically threatened to ruin the lives of everyone important to me."

Andy blinks. "How? By getting our credit card numbers? It would be a pain, a huge pain really, but…"

"He threatened to have you killed," Sam exclaims, immediately regretting it upon seeing the change in her expression. "Well, not _you_, specifically, it was more a general 'my associates will take down everyone you love' kind of thing."

(He still hears Rothenberg's creepy warning: _Got a girlfriend? We'll find her and everyone _she_ loves, too._)

Andy pushes an errant congealed noodle around the rim of her plate with her index finger – one of her more peculiar nervous habits. "Why didn't you tell me? Did Frank know? If this was a serious threat, Sam… my god, what about my dad? If he knew that much about people, he could've skipped right over me and…"

"He was a loner," Sam interrupts. "His 'associates' were a bluff – a desperate move by a guy with no cards left to play. We checked, and eventually he caved and admitted it. But ever since then it's been a 'what if' in the back of my mind – what could've happened if he actually had something to back it up and we didn't pay it any mind, and every time I look at you it keeps coming back stronger." He rests his hands palm-down on the table. "And since there's never any shortage of work to do, I just…"

"Hid out from it." Andy finishes his thought. "I get it. I don't know if I agree with it, or if I would've made the same decision, but I get it, Sam."

_If anyone would…_ "Okay. Good. I guess good, anyway."

"It is." She nods firmly. "Thanks."

"Anytime." He smiles. "So. Your turn. What's got you in knots?"

She's actually drumming her fingers on her plate now, staining them with garlic sauce. "Monday was the anniversary. I know it's stupid, probably. I mean, I was twelve and I'm almost thirty now – at a certain point, you have to get over it, right? I just… it would've been good not to be alone."

_Fuck_. He gazes at her steadily until she looks up. "I'm sorry," he tells her. "And it's not stupid."

She shakes her head. "I'm so afraid of being left, you know? Because of her. But it feels like I don't know how else to handle things – because of her. There's irony for you. And…" She looks up briefly. "She left. She came back, and then she left _again_. Her office had to tell me she moved to Vancouver, she couldn't even be bothered to call, and… so I guess I'm just wondering if anyone's ever going to stay."

He raises an eyebrow, thinks about reminding her that despite all his problems, Tommy never left her. But he has a feeling that's not the response she's seeking right now. "Ask me to stay."

She snickers. "It's that easy, huh?"

"Can be."

"Okay," she says, apparently steeling herself. "Stay."

He grins. "Okay."

There's a conviction that wasn't present the first time around; a sincerity, a commitment. A little strange how such a simple exchange can lead to such a thing, but they've always been a little strange.

"I mean, it's your house anyway, so…"

Sam groans. "Way to ruin the moment, McNally."

"Had to be done." She laughs. "So… that's that. No more knots, I'm officially unkinked."

The smirk is on his face before he feels it stirring.

She catches it and unsuccessfully attempts to distract him from her blush by making a considerable show of rolling her eyes. "Oh, shut up."

* * *

On Friday, they wake up with the sun, her head on his chest.

"How'd you sleep?" he murmurs.

"Better than I have been," comes the sleepy reply. "You?"

He stretches, his arm coming back down to rest over her shoulder. "Nice not to have to chase an appliance. Where is that stupid thing, anyway?"

He feels her chuckle against him. "Left it for the new owners. I don't think I'll be needing it."

So they begin.


End file.
